


Slip of the Tongue

by iprincealii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iprincealii/pseuds/iprincealii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bloody rescue, John argues with Sherlock about his recklessness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Not so graphic with the death, but there is death, so be warned.

John runs, crouched and silent, heading for the door at the end of the hallway. Sherlock had screwed up, screwed up big time and gotten himself kidnapped. Through their little secret language, Sherlock’s idea of course, Sherlock had been able to tell John where he was. John had rushed there immediately and was close to the only room in the building he hadn’t cleared. He reached the wall of the door and pressed his back against it, his handgun loaded and a round chambered – ready to fire. There was a few seconds of hushed panting from John, his heart racing and his hands steady. In less than five seconds he had turned and kicked in the door.

 

As the adrenaline shot through his veins, John recognized 4 people in the room, one tied to a chair – Sherlock. Before those in the room could even fully raise their weapons, John had them in his sights.

 

_BANG. BANG. BANG._

 

A few shots fire from the last man, who’d managed to get his hand on his gun, but that was it. No one was injured, ‘cept those who deserved it. John wasted no time, going to Sherlock and using a pocket knife from his trousers to cut the bloodied rope from Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock had obviously tried to free himself and had sliced the rope into his wrists trying to do so. On top of those injuries the kidnappers had beaten him. Blows to his face and, from the grunt of pain as John helped Sherlock to stand, his gut. Sherlock’s left arm draped over John’s shoulder and John handed him the gun. Holding onto Sherlock’s other hand with his own left hand, John wrapped his right around Sherlock’s waist and they began to make their way through. The gunfire had attracted attention from who was left in the building, but there was truly little to no resistance to their escape.

 

About three miles away, Sherlock began to slump and John had to back their selves against a wall, sliding down so that neither of them fell. Sherlock was exhausted and couldn’t continue and John didn’t blame him, but he was too angry for words. He stared at the opposite wall as he dialed Lestrade.

 

“Yeah, Greg, I’ve got him.” Greg asked how. “Just get to 34 West, the grey-white warehouse. You’re gonna need a clean-up crew.” John hung up his mobile and put it back into his coat, taking his gun back out and dismantling it. He put the pieces in his pocket, planning on ditching them one by one in bins as they traveled main road to hail a cab for Baker Street.

 

“John, I –” Sherlock began, but John laughed. “What’s so funny?” John shook his head, looking up to the sky as he smiled, though it was a mask for the anger. “Just don’t, okay? I don’t want to hear it.” John said, avoiding looking over at Sherlock as he knew the latter was looking at him.

 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Sherlock stated and John sighed, pointedly looking to the ground. “I don’t have to. I don’t care about what you were going to say, Sherlock, because you’ve done it again.” John said, the fake smile gone now, faded into a scowl that crinkled the skin between John’s eyebrows. “Done what again?” Sherlock asked, sincerely confused and John looked up at him.

 

“See? That, that right there! You don’t even know what you’ve done,” he said and shook his head again, getting to his feet, taking a few steps away. “You just…” he stopped himself, hands on his hips as he searched for the words. “You can’t keep putting yourself into danger and expect me to be there for you.” John said each word carefully and slowly, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock was silent and John could feel, rather than see, that Sherlock wasn’t getting it.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous John, past experience has taught me that you’ll be there for me, not expectation. It’s a solid fact, if I need help, you’re there, it’s that sim–” John interrupted him, turning on him and pointing an angry finger.

 

“No, it’s not. It’s not bloody simple and it’s not a solid fact. I’ve been there for you before certainly, but I won’t be here forever. I won’t be alive forever and neither will you if you keep this charade of ‘John will save me’ going in that thick skull of yours!” he said and lowered his hand, raising them both again to run through his hair. “I can’t keep watching you put yourself in danger. I can’t keep seeing you all beaten and broken like this, I won’t.” John began pacing, crossing his arms across his chest and tap, tap, tapping his fingers against his arm.

 

“What are you saying John? Are you – are you done being my assistant?” John stopped his pacing to glare at Sherlock. “What I’m saying is that I’m done being the one to pick up the pieces of you when you let yourself become the victim. I’m done being the one to carry you home. I’m done being the one having to shoot my way through people to get you safe – _get you home_.” John said, hating that his voice decided to crack as he said ‘home.’

 

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t be,” Sherlock said, his voice dispassionate. John raised his hands, gesturing around them. “Do you see anyone else who will? You’re not getting my point here, Sherlock. I don’t want to stop helping you, I want you to stop being so careless!”

 

“I am not careless,” Sherlock said, his voice rising a little. “I get the job done, I ensure the criminals are caught or rightly punished. If anything, I’m care _ful_!”

 

“When it comes to the cases, yes, but not with yourself!” John said, his voice harsh. “You can’t solve cases if you’re dead, Sherlock! You can’t do anything if you’re dead,” his tone raised as he continued, “and I refuse to see more of the people in my life that I love, just throw everything they have away!” John’s voice echoed slightly between the buildings, silence falling between them after. Neither of them looked at each other for a while, John pacing angrily.

 

“So, you love me,” Sherlock said, sirens in the distance growing closer to them. John halted, looking at him with a confused expression. “I didn’t say that,” he replied, tilting his head and knitting his eyebrows together.

 

“Not exactly, but you did say it.” Sherlock said and John closed his eyes, running his hands over his face. He lowered his hands, swinging his arms at his sides.

 

“Can we just go home?” He asked, not confirming or denying anything. Sherlock, a small smile on his lips, nodded and after John helped him to his feet, they began the trek back to 221B.


End file.
